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Carl has felt different for as long as he can remember. Between making faces when asked if a friend was his ‘girlfriend’ as a kid, to watching friends getting girlfriends and boyfriends during high school, to attending weddings for friends to those same partners or different ones as he became an adult, sometimes as a guest, sometimes as a groomsman, never the groom. Carl has felt different his entire life, and he’s okay with that. Romance is something he experiences from a distance; always watching couples in each other’s arms, never the one holding anyone else. It isn’t that he hasn’t had the chance. He’s had his fair share of propositions, whether serious or casual. He knows he’s a handsome man, and he’s used to the rejection script. He just doesn’t get those butterflies people describe. Never has.
He used to get wasps in his head, sometimes. A more violent version of the butterfly metaphor that feels more fitting. Overthinking every interaction for fear of giving the wrong idea, or wondering if the fact that he let a touch linger a little longer than was necessary meant he was in love with someone. Anxiety enough to make a man puke. But he’s grown past that. He knows he’s different, and that’s fine. Romance is meant for books and movies and friends and colleagues. It isn’t meant for Carl, and that’s on him. He’s okay with it.
When he meets Ryland Grace, it’s not really that anything changes. He doesn’t get that love at first sight thing that people describe in rom-coms when he sees ocean blue eyes and sandy hair in person instead of a photograph–an old UNESCO conference in Denmark. He’s prettier in person. Carl’s not made for love, but he’s not blind either. It isn’t that. He doesn’t get those fabled butterflies in his stomach, making him giddy and smiley and desperate for more. He does find himself hoping, silently, that the middle school teacher listens to Stratt and gets in the car. Their eyes meet, and he does get wasps in his head again.
“The sun’s really dying, isn’t it?” Grace asks. Carl just nods once.
“Yeah.”
And Grace gets in the car.
The entire ride is filled with silence, but their eyes meet a few more times throughout. Each small smile from Grace, slightly awkward before he glances away again, gives Carl that same feeling he thought he left behind. Is this different? Was I wrong? No. It’s not different. But If I’m too nice, will he think I’m coming onto him?
I want to be nice. He seems nice.
It’s quiet as Grace gets suited up. Carl watches him in awe as he does his thing across two panes of glass and a sea of space between them. Smart. He’s smart. He knew that before; the guy has a PhD, and his paper that Stratt presented him with when she introduced herself is really fascinating, to say the least. It’s even more intriguing to see it in action. Carl’s quiet, even when Stratt and the others in the room aren’t. He just watches, like he’s used to watching. He swats at imaginary wasps, and he hopes this isn’t the last time he sees Grace again. Whatever that means. Later, when Grace won’t directly tell Stratt he wants to be on the project, Carl nudges him in the right direction.
~
The Carl Hypothesis proved to be true, they made a baby, and they live on a boat now. Carl’s learned a lot about Ryland Grace in the weeks since they’ve met. He’s learned that he prefers sour skittles over regular ones, how he likes his coffee, that he’s definitely the kind of guy to be a teacher, based on his jokes–though he isn’t sure how much of that is nature versus nurture–and most importantly, Ryland is really, really hard to say no to. He does this thing with his face, when he wants something. A sort of kicked puppy look, and he sighs really purposefully. Carl’s gotten to the point that he doesn’t need it to even get that far before he gives in. Ryland so much as suggests he wants something, and if Carl can do it without too many problems, he usually does.
Sometimes he holds it over his head, instead. Because it’s fun to hear him ask. To get the kicked puppy look, and better yet, to watch it change into that shit-eating grin that makes those wasps buzz more intensely. Overthinking everything. Carl’s been keeping it under wraps, but there’s something there. No butterflies, no romance, but something. It’s different than anyone he’s met before, really. And it’s driving him up the wall when he’s alone before bed. He sleeps the moment he gets time to, just to avoid thinking about it.
And then the topic of dating comes up.
They’re on the deck. Just finished watching the sun set. Ryland’s been talking through ten different topics a second, and Carl lets him with the occasional hum, laugh, or short comment on the matter. Silence settles for a moment, or tries to. Before it can fully set in, Ryland speaks again.
“Sooo,” he starts, feet hanging off the ledge they’re sitting on. “How does your girlfriend feel about all of this…secret service stuff?”
Carl glances at him. He knows the purpose of the question. It’s to gauge his answer. Either he has a girlfriend, or he doesn’t. If he doesn’t, maybe he has a boyfriend. If he doesn’t have that, then he’s single, and in most cases, that’d mean he’d be open to something. He’s not like that, though. He has half a mind to let him down off the bat. But Ryland’s different, too, one way or another, so he answers the question itself. “Don’t have a girlfriend,” he says simply. Ryland looks at him with a slight tilt of his head, pursing his lips a little.
“Boyfriend?” he asks. Carl snorts a laugh, even if the wasps buzz louder.
“Nah.”
“...Partner?”
“Nothing like that.”
“Oh.” Ryland looks out to the stars with a peaceful, gentle expression. Carl looks at him the same way. “That’s too bad. You seem like a catch.”
Carl shrugs. “Not really. It’s not something I’m interested in.” He pauses. “Just not a romance kinda guy.” He turns to look at the stars, too. Staring too long could be taken the wrong way, so he watches the stars instead, even if it’s not as nice a view. He hears Ryland laugh. It’s sweet. Quickly becoming a favorite sound.
“Me neither.”
Their eyes meet. There’s an understanding there, unspoken for a while. Carl smiles, and for a moment, he doesn’t feel so different to the rest of the world. Whether that’s because they get each other, or because Ryland might as well be most of his world, he doesn’t take the time to think about. He doesn’t take much time to think about anything. The wasps go quiet, silenced by the simple words from Ryland’s tongue.
“I mean, I’ve had a girlfriend, we were together a long time,” he continues, and Carl just watches him talk. “I was okay with it. But I guess…” He’s staring at the stars again, but he leans a little closer. “I don’t know. In a perfect world, maybe there’s like…a third thing.”
Carl hums. “A third thing?”
“Yeah, besides romance or friendship. Kinda…both but neither. In between platonic and romantic.” He sighs. “Neither of those feel like…enough.”
He understands the feeling. He leans closer, too, until their shoulders touch, and he follows Ryland gaze out to the stars. “...For something like this?” he asks tentatively, a bit quieter than earlier. He hears Ryland’s breathing catch a little, and when he looks over again, he’s smiling.
“Yeah,” he says, a little breathless, and it’s cute. Sweet. Nice. “Exactly.”
Carl nods as his eyes dart down to where Ryland’s fingers splay over his own. “Yeah,” he echoes gently. “That’d be nice.”
Another laugh. Carl turns his hand until it’s palm up, and their fingers fold together like it’s meant to be. Not friends, not lovers, but something. Ineffable, nameless, unspoken, and that’s fine. Ryland kisses the back of his hand. Fuck. They can be different together. Take it slow and go wherever it takes them. Once the Project’s taken off, they’ll have all the time in the world. Or thirty years, at least. Thirty years sounds like a damn good amount of time, though. Carl can’t wait.
~
He doesn’t say ‘I love you’ yet because he thinks they have time.
~
“He’s gonna say no.”
It’s all Carl gives Stratt for a moment once they’re alone in her office. He doesn’t know what to do with himself; Ryland has three hours to decide, and he knows that he’ll say no. He’d be mad about it if he wasn’t selfish. If he didn’t want him to stay.
Stratt doesn’t look up from her desk. She just stares down at a stack of papers–probably important–on the flat surface, her eyebrows pinched a bit in a sort of silent distress that Carl knows her well enough by now to pick up on.
“I know,” she says, tapping the bottom of a pen against the stack.
“Then what’s the plan?”
She finally looks at him. She looks sad. She always looks a little sad. She’s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, so Carl can’t blame her for that. “He’s all we have.”
He knows what she means.
He can’t blame her, even if every piece of his heart in this moment begs to.
“I know,” he agrees. He doesn’t mean for his voice to waver. He swallows it down, looks at a spot on the floor. Stratt gives a melancholy sort of sigh through her nose. Barely audible, but Carl picks up on it. Like he picks up on everything. Watching from a distance, until Ryland Grace.
“I would suggest…” she starts again, a bit more quietly. A bit sadder. “...writing him a letter to read when he’s up there.”
Carl doesn’t move, even as he hears the paper, which he now suspects is blank, pushed closer to him on the desk. He keeps his gaze to the ground.
“Dr. Grace is our only solution.”
He swallows around the urge to tell her his name is Ryland, who likes sour skittles and coffee with cute designs in the foam and is prettier than the stars. He blinks away the beginnings of tears in his eyes until they’re sure not to fall. “I know,” he repeats, and he sits down.
They’re both quiet as he takes the pen and stares at the blank page. As he tries to fit what was meant to be a lifetime into a singular piece of paper.
When he’s done, he stands again. “After the launch,” he mutters, “I quit.”
He knows there’ll be a multitude of paperwork for that. Stratt knows it, too. But she doesn’t bring it up right now. She just nods. “I understand.”
She doesn’t. No one does. Not like Ryland does. And he won’t, anymore. Wasps, long-silenced, come back with a vengeance. With knives and fire and everything that hurts. Carl wants to scream. He just walks away.
~
None of it hurts as bad as watching Ryland on the ground, unable to hold his hand again while he screams his name. It doesn’t compare to the regret of not being able to say anything but what he hopes is a comfort in place of everything he wants to say instead. The world needs saving. He knows the stakes. It doesn’t stop the pain. It doesn’t stop the hoping to wake up next to him after this, proof it’s all a shitty dream. It doesn’t stop the knowledge he’ll be different and alone again.
“You know who you are.”
I know you do. Even when you’re sad. When you’re stressed out. You’re beautiful. Even when you’re scared.
“You’re gonna do great.”
I’m sorry I can’t be with you.
~
I wish we had more time.
- Carl
Maybe in another life, we do.
- Ryland :)